


What's Above The Neck

by nwspaprtaxis



Series: Post-Movie [2]
Category: Across the Universe (2007)
Genre: Angst, Carrying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Max Carrigan, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Protective Jo-Jo, Protective Prudence, Tenderness, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-24
Updated: 2009-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s what’s above the neck that’s screwed, Max thinks dully, watching water and half-digested Cap’n Crunch swirl counterclockwise down the drain....</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Above The Neck

**Author's Note:**

> _**A/N:**_ Thanks and an epic hug to **LaylaBinx** for the beta'ing and cheerleading. That said, a little background is needed. In this fic, everyone is back living happily together in Sadie's apartment and it takes place in the same post-film universe as my other fics, [Looking Through A Glass Onion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/620557) and [The Only Thing That Makes Sense Anymore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/623761) although none are really connected and are intended to be independent of one another. 
> 
> According to my interpretation, the movie takes place Autumn 1967-Spring 1969 with Max beginning his service sometime in the Summer of 1968, returning in early Spring 1969… My Max is also twenty-three, since I figure he’s approximately two or so years older than Lucy and didn’t quite strike me as a Freshman. 
> 
> In terms of my post-film timeline, **Glass Onion** occurs first, in July 1969, some time after the rooftop concert at the end of the movie (I'm not exactly sure what month it was when Jude sang _All You Need Is Love_ , but judging by everyone's clothes, it seemed to be mid-to-late-spring, which gives you a sense of the timeline I am using). **What's Above The Neck** takes place roughly in August / September of the same year. **The Only Thing That Makes Sense Anymore** is set in early January 1970.
> 
>  
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. I'm just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Julie Taymor and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

_Everything below the neck works fine._ A skinny blond groans in misery, fumbling blindly for and pulling on the chrome handle, releasing the toilet of its contents. _It's what's above the neck that's fucked_ , Max thinks dully, watching water and half-digested Cap'n Crunch swirl counterclockwise down the drain, wincing as it wooshes audibly out of sight. As the bowl refills for the umpteenth time that day, he leans his forehead against the cool porcelain lip, his head pounding mercilessly.

All these years of getting drunk, high, or both, he'd never had a hangover. Not once. Sure, he'd gotten smashed, even to the point of practically passing out on a couch in a Princeton University fraternity house, and, once, ending up with Lucy, Jude, Sadie, JoJo and some nameless girls in the middle of — to use Jude's term — bloody nowhere watching a psychedelic-painted bus drive away with no clear sense of how they had gotten there and no ride home back to Greenwich Village (though, to be fair, he was probably the most sober person in their group, having caught on to the nutty hippie navigator announcing a bus trip back to California). But hungover? No. Maxwell Carrigan did not do hangovers.

Max presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, shutting out light, his fingertips digging into his temples, willing back the headache. It'd been hurting for hours, now, and there was no sign of it letting up anytime soon. He knows he is not hungover — he hadn't touched alcohol for twenty-four hours and even then it'd only been two or three beers, nowhere near enough to have any effect on him. This is not the first time he'd had a headache — they'd been happening a lot more often in the past year. Ever since he'd gotten his head caught in the way of some shrapnel fire in a tiny country more than halfway around the world. He won't tell anyone about the headaches, yet, not if he can help it. But this one is bad. This is an honest-to-god, full-blown migraine.

His stomach flips over unpleasantly. _God, no, not again…_ Max grips the porcelain edge, bracing himself for another round of vomiting. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. The roiling subsides and his stomach quiets. He exhales slowly, shakily. Perhaps he was done being sick…

Below the open window, a car screeches past, followed by the squeal of brakes and the angry blare of horns. _Damn…_ Max barely has time to think as lights explode before his vision and his stomach gives a final lurch in response to the auditory overload, making him heave. _Fucking morons_ , he silently mouths the curse when he finally stops trying to expel his stomach lining, bile still dripping from his lips as he gives the single window the finger. Not for the first time he wishes his bathroom had a mirror instead of a window like Sadie's. Flushing the toilet again, he curls up on the wooden floor, arms wrapped awkwardly across his chest, and shut his eyes, waiting for his brain to stop expanding or for his skull to explode, whichever came first.

**::: ::: :::**

When Max comes to, the room is dark and the bit of sky he can see through the window from his vantage point reveals deep dusk. It's not quite night, yet, although the sun had gone down. He has no idea how much time had gone by, only that it is hours later and he must've slept. For a moment he is confused as to why he is lying fully dressed on the bathroom floor. Then, it all rushes back: The agonizing, almost-blinding headache, so bad he could barely think or see straight, let alone drive his taxi, stumbling up the million-plus-one steps to Sadie's apartment, his date, up close and personal, with the porcelain god…

 _Maybe it's all over_ , Max wonders hopefully, lifting his head experimentally from the floor. It feels heavy, achy, still throbbing as though he had taken a blunt object to the skull, but the stabbing knives are gone. Pushing himself upright into a sitting position, it is all he can do to lean up against the claw-footed bathtub and draw his knees to his chest, completely debilitated and drained of all energy. The bathroom is cool and comforting in its dimness and the sounds of the streets below, although still jarring to his hyperaware senses, are less intense and intrusive than they'd been all day.

Exhaling wearily, Max rests his forehead on his knees, too washed up to move, not trusting himself not to be sick at then next little sound. The bathtub at his back is the one sturdy, stable island he can cling to in a spinning world.

A door opens somewhere in the apartment beyond and he sucks in a sharp breath, hoping whoever it is doesn't slam it shut. It doesn't and he listens to the heavy footfalls with bated breath. _Please don't make any noise_ , he begs silently. The footsteps stop and a knock resonates through the thin door.

Fireworks explode inside his skull and Max shoots forward onto his knees, hovering over the toilet at ready. The door opens and light floods the room, making him moan and gag before he can tell whomever destroyed his fragile equilibrium to leave him in peace. Even when there is nothing left inside him, he can't stop retching, his body trying to force out nonexistent liquids.

He feels someone pull his overgrown, chin-length hair from his face and place a cool, comforting hand on the back of his neck.

"It's going to be all right," a velvet voice says from besides him. Despite the soft tone, it is far too deep to be any of the girls' and there is no rough undercurrent of an accent off the docks of Liverpool…

 _JoJo_. Max tries to look over at the older man, but another round of dry heaves seizes him.

"Take it easy, boy. Just take a deep breath. Your body is responding to the same reaction over and over. You gotta break it. Take a deep breath," JoJo continues, his voice even and soothing.

 _Fuck you_ , Max wants to tell the guitarist, _You're not the one puking your guts out_ , but he doesn't. Remaining upright is taking all the strength he has at the moment. He feels JoJo's hand leave his neck and begin to rub large, slow concentric circles on his back. Without really being aware of it, Max begins breathing in time to the musician's rhythm. Inhale on each upward stroke, exhale on the downward. Eventually, after what feels like a long time but in reality was a couple of minutes, he stops throwing up and JoJo withdraws contact.

Spent and weak, Max rests his cheek on the rim of the toilet, head pillowed by his arm. As his eyesight clears of tears, he notices for the first time that the door is shut, casting the room into darkness once again. "Thanks," he finally croaks, his throat raw and burning. "But you can go. I'm fine. It's just a headache." He squirms under JoJo's intense, level gaze, knowing that he is being scrutinized.

"It's not your first one, is it?" JoJo asks, but it is more of a statement than anything else.

Max lifts his head in surprise.

"You didn't think anyone noticed you walking around looking like the light was hurting your eyes last month, did you?"

Max drops his head, closing his eyes in response. He'd really hoped that was exactly what happened. Apparently very little escaped JoJo. "I could hope," he mumbles, not opening his eyes.

That draws a low, brief chuckle from the guitarist. "Does Lucy know?" he asks, growing serious again.

Max jerks upright at his sister's name and immediately regrets it, dropping his head into his hands with a groan. When the dizziness passes, he looks up at the African-American, "No. And she's not going to find out. Luce has enough on her plate right now with Jude being a starving artist without a steady job, the waitressing job making all kinds of crazy demands, a baby on the way, and me being all fucked up by the war. Luce worries more than enough about me and I swear I'll kill you if you worry her more where I'm concerned," he growls out the last dozen words between his teeth. "See if I don't."

"All right. No one in this room is going to tell Lucy. She won't find out from me. I'll give you that much. I promise."

Max nods even though it exacerbates the pain concentrated behind his right temple. "Fair enough."

JoJo sits in companionable silence as the blond gathers more of his strength. Finally: "How bad is it, Max?"

"Bad," he answers truthfully, lifting his head from his hands, leaning back against the tub. "My head hurts. Like it really hurts. Everything makes it worse — sounds, lights, everything. And my brain's fit to explode," his voice is whining, now, and he knows he sounds more like a child of three than a man of twenty-three who'd seen the ugliest side of humanity in Southeast Asia. But the day had taken its toll on him and he doesn't much care.

"You should be in bed," JoJo comments mildly, a worried expression on his face. "You look like hell."

"Feel like hell," Max mutters into drawn-up knees. "God, I just want this to go away." He grinds his fists into his temples. After a moment, he continues, not looking up, "I don't think I can get up."

JoJo doesn't answer him and Max senses that the older man had moved away. "Close your eyes," the guitarist says a moment before there is the telltale squeak of hinges.

Max squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the nauseous feeling to rise up again, but it doesn't.

"C'mon, boy," JoJo whispers into Max's ear. "Lets get you outta here." The guitarist eases one of the blond's arm around his neck. With a slight grunt, JoJo lifts Max into his arms, one arm supporting his back and the other beneath hooked knees, and easily carries him out of the bathroom into the larger Whatever Room.

Light intruding behind closed lids, Max buries his face in the man's shoulder, humiliated to be so helpless and hating his incapacity to cope with this stupid migraine on his own, but, at the same time, too sick to do anything about it.

There is a slight squeak that sounds strangely like his name and a scamper, followed by a door being pushed open. There is the sound of some movement around him, and, several moments later, Max feels JoJo set him on a soft bed into another pair of arms. These don't feel as strong, but they are sure, gentle. The body belonging to them is small — too small to be Sadie — with curves that he knew… "Luce?" he ventures hesitantly, his voice still rough.

"No. It's Prudence," a sweet voice says from somewhere above him. "Lucy's still at work." She places a cool, dripping-wet cloth against his forehead, draping it over his eyes, making him almost whimper in relief. "Shhh," he hears Pru whisper. "Just relax." He obeys, sinking against her shoulder. Even though he knows the younger girl's sexual predilections, he loves her, although he'd never admit it.

Pru shifts behind him, her long, silky black hair brushing his cheek. "Max," she calls softly after a moment, rousing him out of half-sleep. "Take these. They'll help. It's aspirin," she clarifies, pressing the dry tablets to his mouth. He reflexively swallows them as she chases away the chalky bitterness with a glass of water. Through it all, he doesn't open his eyes or remove the cool compress, preferring the dark stability to the alternative. Already, here, with Prudence making it better, the agony of the day is half-forgotten. But, he can't shake the sense of embarrassment that he needs her and that being cuddled feels so good.

"Pru…" he begins, intending to apologize, to set things right.

She interrupts him by pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't talk. I don't mind," and by the tone of her voice, he knows that she means it and is not just saying it to mollify him, and that she had somehow guessed at what he wanted to tell her. "Just sleep. I'll be here if you need me and it'll be better in the morning. Things always are." She eases him into a supine position, head cradled on her crossed legs, her fingers rubbing circles on his temples, massaging away the pain.

The aspirin already beginning to take the edge off the worst of the migraine, Max nods against the crook of her knee and sleeps.


End file.
